


Love You To Death

by stratumgermanitivum, whiskeyandspite



Series: Kinkmeme Story Prompts [25]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, Longing, M/M, Pining, Sort Of, Unrequited Love, Will Graham Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25598620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stratumgermanitivum/pseuds/stratumgermanitivum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: “You don’t seem like the type.”“To consider death?”“To love someone til death,” Will corrected him, “and selfishly not tell them.”Hannibal should be immune to this...
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Kinkmeme Story Prompts [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1575217
Comments: 49
Kudos: 523





	Love You To Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exarite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exarite/gifts).



> For Essa who asked for this... sort of XD our first time writing the trope so we hope you like it bby!

Hannibal stared down into the sink, fighting back another wave of nausea. He had never felt so betrayed by his own body before. He maneuvered through life with the utmost control over his reactions, his responses. He could slow his own heart rate through sheer will, alone. 

Hannibal reached into his mouth and pulled another cherry blossom petal from the back of his tongue, letting it flutter to sit limply in the basin of the sink with the rest of them. He had never considered himself at risk for the disease. He’d thought himself above that. But there the evidence sat, pink and glistening with saliva. 

There was only one possible cause. Only one thing that had changed in the constant that was Hannibal’s life.

Will Graham. Bright and beautiful and  _ dangerous _ . He had a darkness to him that Hannibal would have loved to coax out, but he was far too clever and observant to be entirely safe. He would be the death of Hannibal, if Hannibal wasn’t cautious.

It seemed he might be the death of Hannibal, regardless.

He watched the petals changing color, oxygenating on the open air and turning from baby pink to the color of burned skin. He turned on the water and watched them squash together into a messy lump before dissipating and sliding down the drain.

Good riddance.

Perhaps if he caught this quick enough, Hannibal wouldn’t have to put up with more than a few petals a week.

He knew that was a lie, but he’d mastered the art of lying to himself years ago, and this one would be no different.

* * *

When Will Graham became a patient, officially sanctioned by the FBI, Hannibal found himself waking in the night, choking on petals. He’d wake from dreams of Will Graham’s hands covered in blood, of his chest rising and falling with quick breaths as it had at the Hobbs’ scene. He’d wake from the feeling of fingers tacky with the stuff stroking his face, he’d wake from the taste of copper in his mouth from sucking them clean.

Hannibal called in a favor from one of his old classmates and commandeered an X-ray machine after hours to check himself out.

No roots in his lungs yet, but the clear outlines of multiple flowers already in bloom again.

God damn Will Graham.

“There are surgeries,” Sutcliff reminded him. “Your insurance will cover them.”

Hannibal was well aware of the surgeries. He’d performed one himself, an emergency case that hadn’t been taken care off until roots had begun to twist into the man’s lungs. 

They had a sixty-four percent chance of relapse, a percentage that increased with multiple surgeries. In eighteen percent of cases, the patient died anyway. 

It was an option, certainly, but it would put Hannibal out of commission for several weeks, potentially damaging his lungs permanently. 

Three percent of Hanahaki cases cleared up on their own, but that was usually younger cases, teens who began to see more of the world and fell out of love as easily as they’d fallen into it. 

The final option was no less inconceivable than the first two. After all, one could not truly love someone unless they knew them. For Will to return Hannibal’s affection, he would have to see through to things Hannibal had spent far too much effort to hide.

_ Abandonment requires expectation. _

Will was full of nuggets of wisdom, usually delivered with a snide little sneer or a particular twist to his otherwise painfully handsome features (beautiful, he was  _ beautiful). _ Hannibal watched him week by week explore his office, invade his space as no other patient had ever been allowed and relished in it.

He’d follow the path Will had woven through the room after he went home, following the ghost of his smell and the phantom of his shape; leaning where Will had leaned, pressing his palms where Will’s had pressed.

He was obsessing.

He needed to clear his head and get himself together.

Hannibal Lecter didn’t fall in  _ love, _ he rarely  _ loved  _ at all. He should have been immune based on that fact alone. And yet… and yet.

* * *

He was bringing up full flowers now, not just petals, and more frequently. He’d had to excuse himself several times in the middle of a consultation to cough into a handkerchief and quickly fold away the evidence of his weakness, his human frailty.

Franklyn had asked after his health, offering up his own tales of dealing with endless coughing and its unsightly upbringings. Of course  _ Franklyn _ would suffer from a disease like this; he seemed to fall in love with every and anyone. Hannibal was surprised he’d managed to make it to his age at all considering how open he was with his emotions.

He thanked him for his advice, for his anecdotes, and saw him to the door before another fit took him and he brought up petals onto his antique rug.

With them, were specks of blood.

He could get another x-ray. He could call Sutcliff, book a room, and take a dozen pictures of the insides of his lungs.

It would only tell him what he already knew.

Roots were beginning to form, weaving themselves into the lining of his lungs, scraping at the insides. Only a little, so far. He could draw in a deep breath and only feel the slightest of pressure.

But thicker roots would grow, soon, and branch out, following his veins to stuff his lungs full of petals, until his autopsy more resembled a garden than anything else. 

He could book a surgery. The chance of failure, of death on the table, had increased exponentially since he’d first considered it. Roots were more difficult to remove than buds, than tiny seeds burrowing into his lungs. 

But even if the surgery succeeded, what then? With the loss of the pain, he would also be losing something he had thought himself closed off from.

The last time Hannibal had loved someone, she’d died small and afraid in the snow. 

The thought of Will in such a predicament made Hannibal damn near convulse in pain. More pain than loving him, without an ounce of it returned.

And in truth would it ever be returned? Hannibal knew it was impossible to love him; he’d done enough dark deeds to assure it. He didn’t need to be loved, love was a weakness, a chink in the armor, something to bring him to his knees. Love was not trustworthy or meaningful. Love was a word.

But that word was burrowing roots into his body and threatening to choke him to death.

That word was heavy, a burden, and Hannibal was terrified of sharing it.

* * *

“You should get that looked at,” Will said quietly, after Hannibal had excused himself once more during their session to cough, returning with his cheeks slightly flushed and his eyes bright with unshed tears. A four letter word was taking control of his entire body.

“I’m afraid it’s terminal,” Hannibal replied with a shrug, allowing a smile to ease onto his features when Will’s expression went slack with shock. “But all life is, isn’t it, in the end?”

“Sure,” Will shrugged. “But usually you get a good handful of decades before that happens.”

“I’ve had plenty.”

“So keen to go, Doctor?” Will tilted his head to the side, his own expression easing when Hannibal huffed a soft breath of a laugh. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“To consider death?”

“To love someone til death,” Will corrected him, “and selfishly not tell them.”

Hannibal was silent, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything at all. Will just let his eyes drift to the clock on the wall behind Hannibal’s desk, and clicked his tongue.

“Hour’s up.”

* * *

The pain grew, until Hannibal could hardly draw breath without it. He arranged his affairs. He left letters for the academics who would study his work. He planned a final tableaux.

This would be his confession and his love letter, all in one. A beautiful farewell to the man who could have loved him, had Hannibal been any less than what he was. He would decorate the body in the flowers he drew from his own lips.

He chose a man with dark, curly hair and blue eyes. The similarities ended there, unfortunately, but Hannibal didn’t have the time to be more particular in his casting. 

He killed the man in his own home, then carted the body out to Wolf Trap, Virginia. This was the tricky part, finding a place to park and then dragging a body-- he was too breathless to carry it-- through the woods to Will’s favorite river without being discovered. Hannibal would be discovered posthumously; he had no intention of spending his last moments alive in police custody. 

Hannibal bound the man to a tree, stopping afterwards to gasp for breath, petals and blood strewn across the ground. He still had to decorate, but he could barely catch his breath.

“Is this why you didn’t want to confess?”

Hannibal turned so quickly that he lost his balance, catching himself against the cool damp earth, chest heaving as he tried to get more air into his lungs. Will stood nearby, close enough to have been heard, but not close enough to crowd Hannibal or trample over the soon-to-be crime scene.

In Hannibal’s eyes, Will looked radiant. He looked almost angelic, with how his curls caught the faint moonlight and haloed his face. When he stepped closer, Hannibal reached out despite himself, wanting to at least feel Will grasp his hand once, just once, if that was all he got.

But Will gave him more. He cupped Hannibal’s face and pressed a knee to the ground to balance himself as they sat face to face.

“Did you really not think you could be loved?” Will whispered, stroking his thumbs over Hannibal’s cheekbones, beneath his eyes. He looked so sallow, now, so thin. Before Hannibal could answer, Will kissed him, uncaring for the taste of blood on his lips, the feeling of a petal accidentally passed from tongue to tongue.

“You don’t deserve that,” Hannibal told him quietly, when they’d parted for breath. Forehead to forehead, Hannibal let his eyes close with a sigh. “You don’t deserve that burden.”

Will’s smile was warm when it pressed to Hannibal’s cheek, his breath a tickle against his skin.

“No rest for the wicked,” Will replied. He nuzzled Hannibal just once more before pulling back, blue eyes filled with pupil and a fire Hannibal had only ever dreamed of seeing. “How can I help?”

**Author's Note:**

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